Empty Room
by FaithHopeLove
Summary: Bad things, horrific things...are supposed to happen to other people's daughters. Not mine.' Crossover with Law and Order: SVU.
1. Asleep

**AN: **Hello, all. I've been writing fanfiction for a couple years now, but this is my first Friends fic. I've crossed it over with Law and Order: SVU in a couple chapters, but it's predominantly all 'Friends'. Please read and review! If you love it, tell me. If you hate it, tell me how I could make it better. I love getting suggestions and constructive criticism, but please don't flame me.

Timeset in the story is a little different; it's SVU in present time, but Monica and Chandler's twins are 16.

**Warning: **The story, being crossed over with SVU, does involve sexual assault, and is more dramatic than most _Friends_ stories. Certain parts could be triggering of intense or painful emotions. The first chapter does contain semi-graphic rape, similar to what you would see on SVU. Please use discretion.

**Disclaimer: **Friends is property of Crane/Kauffman/Bright. I'm just playing with the characters for a while. SVU is property of Dick Wolf. Not mine, not mine, not mine. Et cetera.

* * *

**The Bing Residence**

**Westchester, New York**

**Saturday, October 17th, 6:35 PM**

Chandler Bing sat in his kitchen, working at his laptop, and watching his wife as she talked on the phone with Rachel.

"How's Emma?" Monica asked, smiling at her friend's stories about her eighteen-year-old daughter.

It was hard for both Monica and Chandler as they realized that their own children were almost grown now. At 16, Jack and Erica had just begun their junior year of high school. Chandler had been relieved as he had watched Jack begin to date with little to no inheritnece of Chandler's girl-trouble. Monica had watched her daughter go through her first high school years much like Rachel had.

"Erica and Jack?" Monica said into the phone, "They're great. Jack's at a football tournament for the long weekend, and Erica's in the city tonight...I know, they grow up so fast!"

Chandler smiled as Monica continued to talk about their children, then returned to his work. How could any one man be so blessed? He'd been given so much; more than anyone needed or deserved.

Monica's eyes caught his, and together they shared a moment of gratitude; a moment of joy at where their lives had brought them.

---

**Manhattan, New York**

**9:40 PM**

**Erica Bing's POV**

I laugh as Chelsea cracks another joke about Brad, the guy who keeps trying to date her, even though she's been dating Bobby for seven months now.

"Well, should we go in?" Chelsea asks me, gesturing to her father's building.

Her father and step-mother are on this organic food spiel. Everything, virtually every food product in their house, is soy, wholegrain, and other such things. And I suddenly want candy more than anything.

"I'm just going to run to the cornerstore, grab some snacks. Wanna come?"

"Tell ya what," Chelsea says, "You go get some snacks and I'll go find us a movie to watch. You have your copy of the key?"

I nod, and we walk our seperate ways.

I smile as I walk the two blocks to my favorite candy store in Manhattan. Thanksgiving isn't too far off. My family has always celebrated Thanksgiving in a rather eccentric way. Mom makes a dinner which she and Jack eat. However, my father, always having hated Thanksgiving for reasons he refuses to tell me, eats grilled cheese sandwiches. In more recent years, still daddy's girl at heart, I've done the same.

I should grab some Velveeta; make a late-night snack for me and dad tomorrow. Catch up. We used to do that every Sunday...mom would go to the gym, and out for dinner with her friends, and dad would make me, Jack, and himself grilled cheese, and then we'd all watch a movie.

We haven't done that in forever. Mom still goes out on Sunday nights, but Jack's always off doing sports things, and I'm always with my friends, and dad...

What was dad doing these days?

We had a fight on Thursday night, and I didn't even say goodbye before I came here with Chelsea. Our relationship has changed so much since I've turned sixteen. We're still close, but we have so many fights. It never used to be that way.

A navy van is pulling up beside me. The back door is flying open; a man jumps out of it. I try to conceive who he is. I must know him from somewhere, why else would he-

He has a knife in his hands, and before I have time to react, before I have time to scream for someone to help me; that I don't know this person, he is behind me, holding the knife at my throat.

"Get into the back of the van." He says.

The knife at my throat leaves little room for disagreement. I get into the van, and go to the back. There are four men- one driving, one in the passenger seat, one sitting on the ground at the back of the van, and the one with the knife. He's holding it to my shoulder-blade now.

I don't want to die. Please, I'll do anything, I just don't want to die.

The four of them laugh, and I realize that I said that out loud. I'm cowering in the furthest corner of the van; cowering and pleading. The one with the knife puts it down on the seat beside him. He kneels beside me, stroking my hair.

"Are you gonna be a good girl for me?" He asks.

He's ripped off my tank top; is kissing and fondling my breasts.

"If you're good for all of us," He says, starting to undo my pants, "Maybe we'll let you go when we're done."

No, God, please...don't...don't...don't...

---

**11:00 PM**

They threw me out of the van when they'd finished. It's dark. I'm in an alley. It's so cold...so cold...my clothes are ripped...I'm shivering...and I can still feel them. I still smell them. I want them off me.

I want my parents. I want my parents more than anything. I want to be home, in Westchester, eating some of mom's cooking and laughing at one of dad's stupid jokes.

I'm walking towards the street; staggering.

"Help me!" I plead, crying out, "Somebody please help me!"

I'm falling. I'm too weak to move. It hurts too much, and I'm going to be here until-

A man has caught me, and instinctively, I scream.

"It's alright, sweetheart, it's alright," The man says, his grip on me still firm as I attempt to stand, "I'm just going to help you over to a bench, okay?"

He helps me to a bench, and I start to cry as I sit. He kneels down in front of me.

"My name is Elliot," He says, "I'm a police officer. What's your name?"

Slowly, my eyes meet his. They're a deep yet clear blue; a vivid colour. They're like my father's. Maybe that's why I feel like I can trust him.

"Erica," I say softly, "Erica Bing."

"Erica," He repeats gently, almost like an afterthought, "Can you tell me what hapened to you?"

I don't want to say it. It makes it real. It makes the van, and the knife, and all four men...if I say it, there is no more denying it. I don't want to say it. Instead, I start to cry even harder. I don't have to say it. He guesses.

"Were you raped?"

It all comes out at once.

"I was walking to the store and they pulled up in a van and they had a knife and they told me if I was a good girl for all four of them, they might let me go once they were done, and I didn't want to and I said no but..."

This is where I can't seem to say it. They did it anyway. I said no, _screamed_ no...and it happened anyway. It was like the more I screamed; the more I struggled, the more they enjoyed it. The more I cried the more they laughed, and the more I begged for mercy, the more violent they got. I can't say it. I _won't_ say it. I'll just cry it out.

Elliot is shushing me; trying to tell me that it's over, and I'm safe, and that he can take me to an emergency room to get medical help. I nod slowly, my mind not processing the words as quickly as I want it to. My mind is still full of pleas for it to stop, still full of what happened, still pleading to get him off of me.

"I need to take a shower,"

"Alright, just let me take you to the ER, we'll get evidence taken care of, and then you can shower."

"I need him off me," I plead, trying to stand, "I need them off!"

I stand too quickly and I'm almost falling. I keep trying to walk, anyway. I don't want to be here. He can't help me. He doesn't know what I need. I don't need an ER full of doctors and nurses who are just going to touch me even more. I just need a shower, and my bed. I want to get every last trace of them off me, and then I want to sleep under as many quilts as I can find to cover me, and forget everything.

"Erica, these men deserve to be punished for what they did to you. Let me help you."

His voice has taken on an almost fatherly note. I look back.

"Let me help you." He repeats, his voice decidedly paternal now.

Slowly, I turn and walk back.

---

**11:37 PM**

**Monica Bing's POV**

I've feared the phone ringing at this hour from the moment I welcomed Erica and Jack into the world, with my husband beside me. It was Chandler who answered it.

"Hello...yes, this is her father..."

It's Erica.

"...Is she okay?...What happened to her?...No, you'll tell me _now!_" My husband yells the last word, punching his bedside table.

He's always been protective of his little girl. He didn't want her to go to the city this weekend. Not without family. I'd had to convince him that it was time to let her go.

Look where it's got me.

"We'll be there as soon as possible."

I'm wide-awake, staring at my husband, every thought in the world speeding through my mind. Is she dying? Is she hurt? Is she scared?

"Erica's in the hospital."

"What's happened?"

He's crying. He never cries, but he's crying.

"I don't know, Monica. All they'll tell me is that her condition is stable, and that she couldn't call herself because she was receiving medical attention."

I don't want it to be true. It can't be true. Bad things, painful things...happen to other people's daughters. Not mine.

"She's in her room, Chandler." I say, getting out of bed, "She's sleeping."

I walk to her room. Her mauve walls, full of photographs, awards, and posters. Her white bedspread.

Her empty bed.

Chandler walks up behind me, his arms wrapping around me just as I begin to weep.

"She's sleeping. She's in the house somewhere, I know! She's just asleep! "

I turn around, into my husband's arms, resisting him.

"_I'm_ just asleep!" I yell, "This is just a nightmare! Wake me up!"

"Monica." Chandler says, his arms wrapping even tighter around me, leaving no room for resistence, "She's not asleep. She's not in the house. She's in the ER, and she needs us right now."

This time, it hits me. My little girl is in a hospital, scared, and going through God only knows what...alone.

The next time I realize anything is happening, we're already driving down the highway.

---

**12:05 AM (October 18th)**

**Saint Helena Hospital**

**Erica Bing's POV**

They've finished the sexual assault exam. They're getting ready to stitch up my back. Can I roll over onto my side, facing the detective? Is it painful? Am I ready?

Questions swirl around me like air. My answers form themselves, independant from my true thoughts. Elliot is sitting at my bedside. I wince as the doctor begins cleaning the cuts on my back with alcohol, and Elliot takes my hand in his own. I smile soflty; try to, at least.

"You remind me of my dad." I say softly, and he smiles, squeezing my hand tighter as the stitches begin.

"Yeah?" Elliot says, smiling, "Why's that?"

"His eyes are like yours."

"I've got a daughter close to your age," He says, "Are you close with your father, Erica?"

"Very." I say softly, "I wish he was here right now."

"He'll be here soon," Elliot says, rubbing my arm reassuringly, "What's your favorite thing about your dad?"

What is my favorite thing about my dad? His jokes? His goofy accents? That he can pluck my eyebrows better than the beautician at mom's salon, somehow without causing me any pain whatsoever? Grilled cheese? His irrational fear of _Lord of the Dance_?

The answer comes to me, and for the briefest of moments, it takes away the pain.

"I guess the way I feel when he hugs me," I say, "Like nothing in the world could hurt me."

* * *

More to come! Please review. 


	2. Broken

**AN: **Hello again! Thanks to everyone for all the support and encouragement in your reviews; I love getting them. On with the next chapter...

--

**Saint Helena Hospital**

**12:15 AM (October 18th)**

**Chandler Bing's POV**

Monica and I burst into the third-floor waiting room of Saint Helena's, after just having completed a dangerously quick drive from Westchester to Manhattan. Monica has clothes, toiletries, food, and a novel all hastily thrown into a tote bag she's brought with her; thrown together in five minutes time.

A man looks our way and stands, a woman sitting beside him also rising.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bing?" He asks.

Normally, I'd crack a joke here. Something about ESP, stalking...anything to break the tension of knowing that he can tell who we are just from the panic written into every line of our faces. But there is nothing funny about this.

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Elliot Stabler, and this is my partner Detective Olivia Benson. We're detectives working with Manhattan Special Victims Unit."

"Special Victims Unit? What does that mean?" Monica asks, tears cascading down her face; unnoticed.

The woman named Olivia looks sympathetically at my wife.

"Will the two of you please sit down?" She asks kindly. After we oblige, she proceeds, "Let me first tell you that Erica is...physically going to be just fine. She had some cuts on her face and back which required stitches, but the rest is just minor cuts and bruises."

Somehow I know. I don't know why or how I know, but I know before they say it. One glance at Monica, though, and I can see her still trying to understand what they're saying. Or maybe she does understand. Maybe she understands, but can't let herself understand.

"Just tell me what happened to her!" Monica says, her voice breaking.

I take her hand and squeeze it. This time, the male detective...Elliot...is the one who speaks.

"Erica was raped tonight."

This is where Monica and I react differently. At this point, all other noises only reach me on a surface level. The world stops with these words, and the only emotion in existence is pain.

Monica, however, starts asking questions; getting information.

"She's received medical treatment? How is she? What medical procedures have been done?"

"She's received treatment, yes," Olivia replies, "I stayed with her through the sexual assault exam, and Detective Stabler was with her while she received treatment for physical injury. She's doing as well as could be expected. She's been asking for the two of you."

At this point, before anyone can ask more questions, a doctor steps in.

"She is a little overwhelmed. I think it would be best if you went in one at a time. Once you've both had a chance to see her, I'll give Erica a sedative to help her sleep through the night. She'll be able to go home tomorrow morning."

"Erica's decided to press legal charges, so we'd like to take her statement tomorrow before you leave for home."

It's so much information at once.

"Chandler." Monica says my name, and I turn to meet her eyes, "Do you want to go first?"

I hesitate. Monica and I have reversed since the drive here; she's become the strong one, and I've begun to break down. Though I would give anything to run into the hospital room and hold my daughter, she needs Monica's stability right now.

"Go ahead, Mon." I say softly, "I just need a minute."

Olivia takes Monica to the hospital room, and I stare at the wall of the waiting room; seeing not the blue paint I know is there, but every parent's worst nightmare.

"I'm a father, too." Detective Stabler's voice breaks into my thought. He moves to sit beside me.

"What do I do, Detective?" I ask, surprised at the weakness, anger, and fear I'm showing a complete stranger, "What do I possibly do to make her feel safe? What do I do? What do I say to her? How do Monica and I possibly comfort her after this?"

"You trust yourself."

His response is instant.

"You trust yourself to know that in the end, you'll know what to do for your daughter. You gave her life, and for sixteen years, you've raised her and loved her. You'll know what to do. Just trust your gut."

I think of what he's said to me. It's true. I've seen Erica almost every day for sixteen years; have raised her. I know her. Her favorite book is _The Fountainhead_, she can't go more than three days without swimming, she enjoys Indian food with a fierce passion, she loves her friends more than life itself, and California is her favorite place in the world. She has been known to observe and celebrate sacred days on the Jewish, Buddhist, Catholic, and Muslim calendars, as well as practice traditions from all four religions- often all at once, at a rate which makes my head spin.

There is much to love and much to admire about my daughter- an honors student, a natural leader. But what I've always most admired moreso than any grade or extra-curricular achievement...is the way she lives her life; with an open heart. To Erica, life was always an adventure; the unknown was just another chance for something amazing. She'd never been afraid to be herself, to walk to the beat of her own drum...and most everyone we knew loved her for it. For her willingness to attempt to practice four different religions at once, albeit none of them consistently or to the letter of each doctrinal belief. For her willingness to laugh at her mistakes. For how fiercely she loved those around her.

For her innocence. And that is something that this...this...

There are no words to describe this. This..._violence_ has all the power in the world to destroy and break my daughter; it could easily do just that, and I know it. I don't want to watch her lose herself, yet here I am powerless to stop it.

I'm scared to see her. I'm scared to see how deep the damage is. I'm scared that our relationship isn't strong enough to make her feel she can open up to me. I'm scared that if I couldn't save her from being raped, I won't be able to help her through all that will follow.

But as Monica walks back into the waiting room and I walk into my daughter's room, I force everything back. My _fear_ takes the backseat to my _need_ to see her alive...even if that means having to see her so broken, so vulnerable.

_Can't things that are broken be made whole?_ This is what I ask myself as I stand outside her door. I'm her father. Maybe I can't save her; fix her. But I am damn well going to try.

But there is no sight that prepares anyone for what lies before me. It's hard to believe that the tiny form under the blankets, attached to an IV, with bruises and stitched cuts covering her face...is Erica. Erica is the one up at 6AM on a Saturday, laughing in the kitchen singing _Delta Dawn_ with her mom, making blueberry pancakes. Erica is the one who can almost total the family car five times in one driving lesson, and just laugh. Erica's the one who does ballet positions as she empties the dishwasher; constantly in motion and action with a million things to do and see; constantly doing and planning, laughing and smiling.

The subdued, timid, shivering girl laying on the hospital bed before me feels like a stranger, not the little girl I raised. One look at her, before a word is spoken, and already I know that the bastard who did this to her could die the most painful death imaginable and burn in hell forever, and it wouldn't even begin to be enough.

She looks at me, and the spark of life and adventure in her eyes...the glow that I'm so used to seeing...is nowhere to be found.

"I didn't say it back." She says, one tear falling from her eye.

"What, sweetheart?" I say, the intonation of my voice so different from our last full conversation. My anger seems so irrelevent now.

"When I left for school on Friday morning, ready to go to Chelsea's dad's house right after cheerleading practice...you said you loved me. I didn't say it back."

More tears are forming in her eyes.

"I should have said it back. I'm sorry, daddy, I'm sorry!" She says, the tears falling as she looks at me, "I love you. I love you. I...are you mad at me?"

I'm at her bedside, my hand held up in silent supression of other apologies.

"Oh, my sweet girl," I whisper as I slowly sit on her bed, "No."

I repeat the word over and over again as she sobs, kissing her forehead, her cheeks; kissing away each tear.

"Shhh. I love you, Erica. I love you. Daddy loves you."

"They hurt me, Dad." She whimpers, "They hurt me so much. I begged them to stop, I swear..."

_They._ Not him, _they_. She was raped by more than one man.

I'm her father. I should know what to do right now; should know how to comfort her. But I don't. I haven't the slightest idea what to do. What do you do when the child you were supposed to protect is in this much pain because you weren't there to protect her?

You hold her. It's the advice I would have given had someone asked me, and it's what I find myself doing now.

"Shhh, they can't hurt you anymore, sweetheart. I'm here. You're safe now. Just rest."

And my daughter slowly falls asleep, cradled in my arms.

_Can't what is broken be made whole?_

--

Monica's POV next. Thanks again for such great, supportive reviews; hope to hear from all of you!


End file.
